Play Nice
by Rebecca Pierce
Summary: Also known as one of the things Rose Tyler tells her Doctor that she sometimes doesn't mean. Sometimes. (Random grab-bag drabbles fic)
1. Play Nice

A/N: a short one-shot that might evolve into several drabble sort thingies if given enough prompts. Wanna help? Head over to my tumblr and drop me a prompt, or drop me one here :) In case you wanna drop by and say hi on tumblr, my name on there is BadW0lfBlue.

Also, this was based off of a pic I saw on there. I can't get the link (even if I try to click on the pic), so just go on there to see it. :P Basically it's a shot focused on a model's hand wearing this cute little fishnet/lace glove and her arm is next to her side so you see this white sorta dress thing or whatever beside it. And me being me, I had to turn it into a Tentoo/Rose thing because reasons.

No own, no sue.

* * *

It's a vitex party once again.

He's bored out of his mind already, the majestic grandfather clock in the corner ticking away the minutes as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other and frowns into his flute of champagne.

_Play nice_, Rose had said, and so he finds that playing nice means staying in the corner until she returns from her Torchwood mission.

There's shmoozing. There's money and power and so many high rolling stakes being thrown around between sips of alcohol and fake laughter that it stifles him, his retreat into the empty area of open lounge/main entrance (one can never be too close to an escape route) not quite as private as he wishes as he grimaces his way through a polite conversation and tries to find a form of escape.

And at first he truly _is_ desperate, at least until he finds a scientist from the medical defense department of Torchwood and eases back into the scientific with great enthusiasm.

He's just getting into the technicalities of effects of time vortex energy on human genes when his brown eyes latch onto the vision currently standing at the top of the grand staircase and his words get stuck in his throat.

He can't breathe.

The whole room has gone quiet at her entrance and frankly the Doctor can't blame them.

The blonde cascade of hair he's used to seeing in a quick ponytail or bun is mussed just so, tresses framing her heart-shaped face in such a way that makes his fingers itch to run through them. To him, they look as if someone has already done so, the smirk playing on red-tinted lips certainly not helping that image.

He can't help but remember those lips wide open, breathy gasps escaping as he-

_Play nice_, he recalls her saying, and now as she begins to come down into the crowd, he can't help the images that dance behind his eyes as her small, soft hand lightly caresses the bannister of the stairs and gives him a view of the delicate fishnet lace hugging the blood red nails that scratch down his back whenever he hits that one little spot she loves so much.

_Play nice_, her hazel eyes say from beneath lowered lashes that he's seen fully closed in desperation for release.

But that white figure hugging number doesn't lend itself to that.

She knows this.

Rose sees it in the way his eyes darken into molten pools as they unabashedly follow the curves of her figure. She feels it in the running of his fingertips over the lace of her glove when he takes her hand, full of promise for later even as he returns to his scientific conversation with barely a hitch.

_Play nice_, she says later that night as he sits at the edge of their bed disheveled, watching, entranced as her still-gloved hands undo the zip of the dress. It pools to the floor at her feet as he smirks.

Because of course, ever her Doctor, he proves to her just how much more fun it is when he doesn't.


	2. Lost in the World

A/N: So random drabbles-this one is based on a drawing I did, of which the muse was a song by Kanye West (one of the random actual semi-decent ones). If you wanna see the drawing, head over to my tumblr or deviantart.

Pairing: TentooxRose

* * *

_(I'm lost in the world)  
Run from the lights, run from the night,  
(I'm down on my mind)  
Run for your life,  
I'm new in the city, and I'm down for the night _

_**-Kanye West, **_**Lost in the World**

* * *

He tells her of Gallifrey.

The story trickles out of him, a spring that slowly gives way the more she listens. At first it's small things he whispers into her hair as they lie in bed-the details of the sky, the twin suns, the silver of the trees. Buildings that gleamed proudly in the light, the busy markets of Arcadia among towering skyscrapers, or the colors of their flag as it flapped in the wind. But then there's the hustle and bustle, the academics, the passing of history painted at their fingertips in threads of pompous gold-all of it a tapestry that comes to life behind her closed eyes on those nights she wakes in tears and near hysteria from nightmares of her time without him. There's foods she'll never get to try (and oh Rose, the biscuits there were exquisite!) and fairy tales as they should be (really, Rose, Cinderella was actually a Gallifreyan!). But then, as time begins to tick away and he realizes his story will die with him, he tells Rose about them-his people.

He tells her of their brilliance, of their well-intended purpose. He tells of their rise-and on a dark night full of lightening and thunder, of their fall.

Rose leans into him, hand splayed over his one heart, and listens as she has always done.

All of it comes spilling out then-the details he can remember at least. So when finally he comes to the point when he becomes a scruffy old warrior that steals The Moment, his voice begins to crack, catching in his throat as the memory blurs.

Pain.

But then there's large hazel eyes filled with worry pulling him out of the past, the lightening bringing her features into sharp contrast and revealing the glow of her sorrow at his loss, strangely fitting in the backdrop of cascading water that trickles down their large library window.

She doesn't need to say anything-chooses not to because she knows, and that alone is immensely comforting to the hybrid that digs fingers desperately into her hair, clings to her waist like a drowning man and pulls her in.

In the silence their faces are close, just enough that their noses are touching and he can't seem to breathe deeply enough, to selfishly take of this silly pink and yellow human that somehow turns the sorrow into something warm and tender. There's the blossoming realization that he isn't alone now as he clings impossibly tighter (really and truly forever), will never be again, and it overwhelms him as a smile comes slowly to life where a moment ago there was pain.

It's full of desperation, it's full of fear, and somewhere in the turmoil of the Oncoming Storm, it's full of love.

It's a love that he uses to describe the brides of his world-to resurrect the ceremony and the details etched in golds and deep crimsons-details he finds himself tracing on her skin as he describes them.

"Doctor," Rose asks, tipping her head playfully to the side as she gives him a hesitant grin, "If I didn't know any better I'd say you were proposing."

She nearly takes it back as silence suddenly falls between them, a strong turmoil swirling in her Doctor's brown eyes. Her mouth is open and she's not sure what she's going to say to backpedal, but he beats her to it.

"How long are you going to stay with me?" His voice is small, a whisper that she nearly doesn't catch as thunder claps outside.

"Forever." She answers firmly in the echo of the storm.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It's their forever that drives Rose Tyler into the newly formed TARDIS library on a day many weeks later, momentarily overwhelmed by the amount of ancient texts towering in endless rows of bookshelves and spiraling staircases. It sends her into a frenzy of splayed books, of sketches, and of relieved thank you's to her accomplice (the TARDIS is a sweetheart, what with making sure the books she needs are close by and in English) on nights the Doctor is away at Torchwood.

On nights where his world comes alive for her.

She sketches-doodles at first, offhand drawings and half-done models of what she hopes to be a good idea. There's teacup rings on some of the sketches from those nights when she has nightmares and his side of the bed is cold, books stacked haphazardly and comically full of sticky notes where she thinks are decent descriptions.

And slowly, inch by graphite-filled inch, it takes form.

The graphite in turn becomes cloth on her trips out with Jackie to the best seamstress Pete Tyler can find. It becomes seams and intricate weaves, gold and crimson clinging close to her form on draping white reminiscent of the Gallifreyan brides of old. It becomes teardrop pearl earrings and hair swept into a curling side ponytail, and through much insistence on Rose's part, blue chucks.

And on the day when she promises her forever to her Doctor before her parents, it becomes his breathless gasp of wonder.

That night as they walk together into the TARDIS for her first official flight, the Doctor can't help but linger as he closes the door behind him, watching Rose walk up the familiar grating to stand by the glowing console.

For one wild moment he sees a Time Lady-a regal woman, graceful and timeless, with infinity weaving in fragile threads around her and her own future at her command.

A goddess.

The Bad Wolf.

But then she turns, noticing his lack of movement (and gob), and smiles invitingly, raising a hand to him. The gleam of her wedding ring makes his head dip down to hide his fond smile as he makes his way up to join her, easily falling into an embrace with her as she grins and leans up on her tiptoes to reach his ear.

"Now, I do believe my husband left my flying lessons pending a while ago, yeah?" She pulls back then, watching as the memories start coming back to the Doctor. Smiling tenderly, he leans down to plant a kiss on her forehead before nodding.

"I believe I did, yes. Would the missus like to take a stab at it now?" A lovely tongue-touched grin makes its way onto Rose's face as she gleefully pulls him in for a quick kiss.

"Yeah?"

A small chuckle escapes him as he slips his hands down to her waist, nudging her into turning her attention to the console, her back now pressed firmly to his front.

"Yes." He whispers into her ear, grinning as she shivers before taking her hand and guiding it to the first lever.

"Allons-y!" She says, and with unhindered enthusiasm throws back the lever as the familiar wheezing and groaning fills the console room.

The Doctor smiles.


End file.
